


Spurtle

by fengirl88



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Cooking, Domesticity, Erik's cooking skills are canon, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik can't imagine what Emma or Mystique would say if they could see the Master of Magnetism making breakfast for Professor X.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spurtle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginbitch/gifts).



> this fic is for ginbitch - happy birthday!

“What's this?” Erik asks, staring at the elaborately carved head and the long, slender stem.

Charles looks up from his coffee and his newspaper. No fresh reports of riots: Erik can tell that without asking, just from the set of Charles's shoulders. He looks tired, as well he might – last night was a wild one – but for the moment he's at peace. The kitchen is full of that crisp early morning light you get in October here, and the house is still quiet.

“That? Oh, it's a spurtle,” Charles says, knowing this explains precisely nothing. 

He looks pleased with himself, a bit mischievous. Erik likes that look on him, though he really shouldn't – it just encourages Charles and makes him worse.

“A what?”

“For making porridge,” Charles says, grinning. “You can't make proper porridge without a spurtle.” 

Erik's never tried to make porridge at all, but he very much doubts that's true.

“Truly,” Charles says, his blue eyes wide and guileless.

“Porridge,” Erik says sceptically. “Is that why the end's in the shape of a thistle?”

“Mm,” Charles says. He licks his lips, which is seriously unfair. “I like porridge. Used to have it every day in Oxford.”

Erik feels a pang of jealousy; he knows it's stupid to wish he'd shared the Oxford years with Charles, but he can't help it. They have so little time together now – _and whose fault is that?_ he imagines Charles saying.

Charles wheels his chair over to the stove, and puts his arms around Erik's waist.

“Don't be sad,” he says. “You're here now.” 

Erik doesn't know if Charles read his mind, or if his thoughts are just that obvious from his face. It doesn't seem to matter.

He leans in and kisses Charles, a slow lingering kiss that makes Charles clutch at Erik's shoulders and his hair. Erik fingers the mark he sucked into Charles's neck last night, the one that made Charles come for the second time. The body's compensation, shifting the erogenous zones upwards; Erik knew about it in theory, though nothing prepared him for the reality of it.

Charles groans and twists away, breaking the kiss. They're both breathing hard.

“The others will be down soon,” Charles says.

The young ones; sleeping late, like the teenagers they mostly are. Erik's tempted to give Charles his best come-to-bed stare and say _Make them sleep longer_ , but he knows that casual abuse of Charles's power isn't something he should be asking for. 

And there are dark shadows under Charles's eyes. Erik knows Charles is so busy taking care of the others that he doesn't always remember to look after himself, that worrying about the school and what's happening in the outside world keeps him awake – and that their wild nights leave Charles more depleted than they used to. But they can't keep their hands off each other, even now. 

He kisses Charles's forehead and strokes his hair, feeling Charles relax under the gentling touch, his breathing becoming steadier.

“Tell me how to make porridge, then,” Erik says, half-joking. “Since you like it so much.”

“You don't have to do that,” Charles says apologetically. “I can make it myself.”

“I know I don't have to,” Erik says. “I'd like to.” Unexpectedly, this seems to be true.

“Oh all right,” Charles says. He rolls his eyes, as if teaching Erik to make porridge is a terrible imposition, but he's struggling to suppress a smile.

“They don't make these in metal, I suppose?” Erik says, picking up the spurtle.

“No,” Charles says, smiling openly now, “it has to be wood.”

He instructs Erik in the proper measuring out of oats, water and salt, tells him that adding milk is uncanonical but he likes it that way, and watches Erik as he heats the mixture to boiling, then stirs it over a low flame.

Erik can't imagine what Emma or Mystique would say if they could see the Master of Magnetism making breakfast for Professor X. Still, there's something oddly soothing, almost hypnotic, about the repeated stirring, and Erik finds himself humming under his breath, a tune he doesn't recognize, in time with the careful steady movement of the spurtle. 

“Is that done?” he asks eventually, holding out the saucepan for Charles's inspection. He's no judge of these things but the consistency looks about right.

Charles clears his throat and says “Yes, I think so.” 

His cheeks are faintly flushed. Interesting.

“I hadn't realized you liked porridge _that_ much,” Erik says, teasing. He brushes his thumb against the head of the spurtle and Charles groans and says “Your _hands_ ”.

Ah. He _thought_ Charles had been watching him quite closely.

“Sorry,” Erik says, grinning unrepentantly. He fetches a couple of bowls and puts them on the table, leaving Charles to decant the mixture.

“There's some golden syrup in the middle cupboard,” Charles says.

Erik gives him a look that says _You have got to be kidding_ , but Charles doesn't blink.

“I can't believe they do this in Scotland,” Erik says, beckoning the green tin down within reach of Charles's hand. There's a picture of a lion and some bees on the side, and a slogan that sounds as if it might be Biblical.

“No, probably not,” Charles says, making a well of golden syrup in the middle of his porridge.

Erik prods suspiciously with his spoon at the pale mass in front of him. He's not sure this is at all a good idea, but he doesn't waste food and he probably never will. He carries on manfully till the plate is clean, rewarding himself by watching Charles eat.

Because it's worth the trouble of making porridge by hand, even worth the trouble of eating it, to see Charles licking the last vestiges of syrup from his spoon, see him looking contented as a well-fed cat basking in a patch of sunlight. Maybe it's just Erik's imagination that the shadows under Charles's eyes are less dark than they were, but he's not about to let reality spoil the moment for him.

Charles looks across the table at him and smiles, and Erik's heart contracts. He'll have to go soon, and there'll be that struggle that happens every time; it ought to get easier but if anything it gets worse. They can't live together, holding the beliefs they do, and all the arguments they've had in the last two years haven't brought them any closer to resolving that clash of ideologies. Charles long since stopped asking Erik to move back in with him and the young ones, and Erik no longer tries to reason or seduce Charles into joining him and the Brotherhood. 

So this is what they have: occasional nights and mornings after. Too few and far between, but if it happened any more often he doesn't think he'd be able to leave, and he needs to leave.

He sees Charles's glance flicker to the helmet on the kitchen counter; they both know it's time... 

Charles's kiss tastes milky and sweet. His arms around Erik's neck feel as trusting as a child's, but he's not a child. Old friend, adversary, lover, the brother in arms Erik will never have; the one who knows him better than anyone, and always will.

“Come again soon,” Charles says. “You know you're always welcome.”

 _And your students think you're a kind man_ , Erik thinks, but he doesn't say it. He hasn't shed a tear since they parted on the beach in Cuba, and he swore he never would, but at times like these it feels as if there's an obstruction in his throat, the size and hardness of a fist.

He presses one more quick kiss to Charles's forehead, noticing with a pang this time how Charles's hair is starting to recede. Then he turns away to put his armour on and face the world once more.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to blooms84 and c_gracewood for beta wisdom and cheerleading. 
> 
> this fic was inspired by Michael Fassbender's casual reference to making porridge every morning for himself and Liam Cunningham while rehearsing for their big scene together in Steve McQueen's film _Hunger_ (2008); my thanks to kalypso for alerting me to the radio interview in which he told that story.


End file.
